Drinks With Q?ro;”The Originator

Q's Tavern

Nostrand Ave. (betw. St. Johns and Lincoln Pls.), Brooklyn

718-774-9021

Gentleman, what can I do for you this fine evening," Al the barkeep says as we enter the unassuming Q's Tavern, though unassuming is really a benign euphemism for the age-old question: What are we getting ourselves into?

From the exterior, Q's Tavern, located on Crown Heights' Nostrand Avenue, looks as comforting as a poultry-killing plant. The front window is obscured by blinds more crooked than the Bush administration, and the shiny awning is as black and ominous as Darth Vader. The interior is all wood paneling and one fuzzy TV.

Diamonds, as clichés go, are in the rough. Mars Bar taught me that lesson. So like drunken explorers, we're inside Q's Tavern, surveying the beer. "Bud, Coors, Heineken," Al, wearing a sweatshirt and a creased forehead, drones on in his Newport-roughened voice. The selection is as thrilling as a Mormon's bachelor party.

"You want this," Al says, reaching into an under-the-bar fridge and retrieving a frosty bottle of Kappler, an imported German beer.

"Okay, I want this," I say.

"I told you so."

One drinking companion follows suit. The other orders a Budweiser. Al looks at him like he asked for a Mr. Pibb mixed with milk. The Budweiser order becomes a Kappler.

"Hasn't anyone ever told you to listen to your bartender?" Al asks.

He grabs two more Kapplers, removes their caps and wraps the mouths in paper napkins, then tucked inside the bottles. The damage? Three dollars apiece. "Gentleman, we're having after-work fun," Al says.

I can't agree quickly enough. For more than 20 years, Q's Tavern has served Crown Heights, a neighborhood, like New York City itself, perpetually in flux. It's a real Caribbean cross-section: Trinidadians, Jamaicans and Haitians gather together inside Q's Tavern in easy harmony. It's no fluke.

"We're here to have a good time. We don't want trouble," Al says, pausing to buzz someone inside. "You don't want me to tell you to leave." He grins like a teddy bear, flexing his paws.

But would anyone want to leave? Q's Tavern's guiding principle is downright Midwestern: Come as a stranger, leave as a friend. What would a friend a do for you? Each night, "whenever we get a chance, we cook for you. For free." Al's specialty is lasagna-both meatless and vegetarian-though dinners are mostly chicken-based. Q, the eponymous owner wearing thumb-thick plastic glasses, emerges from the kitchen, where's he's simmering a spicy stew.

"Ahh, new recruits," he says, gesturing toward our triumvirate. We shake hands. "I'm Q-the originator," he says. Our titles are hardly so effusive, so we stick to first names and order another Kappler round-the rich pilsner has grown on us, just like Q's Tavern itself. This tiny bar is a Webster's definition of a local pub: cheap drinks (customer appreciation means half-off until 8 pm; afterward, bottles run $5, while triple-pours of top-shelf liquor like Hennessy run $6) and a straight-talking, sarcastic bartender. Such a combination hearkens to a bygone era, when your presence was more welcome than your money.

You're always welcome at Q's, from first call until "the cops shut us down at night," Al says. Sunday evenings find a reggae band strumming in the corner near the front door. Other nights, a DJ spins hip-hop, dancehall, whatever-"He can look at who walks in the door and play for them," Al says proudly-from a specially built wooden booth. Of course, there's also karaoke. I tell Al about a recent evening spent singing Jay-Z's "99 Problems."

"I have flow."

Al tilts his head 90 degrees. "That's good," he says, laughing. "We don't have too many white songs. You can come in and sing another black one, though." Ahh, honesty. A pleasant surprise. Double for the booze. Secrets must be secret, so let's just say several bottles' potency nearly equal boiling water's temperature. And if anyone asks you to try marijuana, know they're not speaking of America's favorite illicit smoke.

Around 8 pm or so, Q's Tavern goes sexy: lights dim, revealing a black-light penchant. Soup's also on, so we order more Kappler and relocate to a table, where we dig into Styrofoam bowls of a back-of-the-throat-spicy chicken stew. It's fiery yet rich, mingling happily inside our three-beer bellies. What more could we want? Home-cooked grub, cheap beer, good conversation; it's like a home away from home. I've come a stranger, and I'll leave as a friend.

"How is it?" Q inquires, pointing at our nearly empty bowls.

"Strangely perfect."